


Evergreen

by Meaiku, ProneToRelapse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bargaining, Fair Folk, M/M, Magic, fey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-08 01:04:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15231981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meaiku/pseuds/Meaiku, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: They lure his son away before the dawn. Into the forest where no one ever goes. They won't return him without gaining something in return





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Genuinely, this prompt hit all my good spots, but the way it was written was so enticing that I demanded that Meaiku and I team up on it. I can't take the credit and just gift the work. I need y'all to know exactly how perfect these prompts are. 
> 
> So this is me and Meaiku teaming up. Get fucken ready.

_Keep running, keep moving. Don’t stop, don’t look back._

His lungs burn, branches rip at his clothes and skin, tearing thin lines of red along his arms. He doesn’t stop, he can’t. If he stops it’s over. 

_All your fault. You should have listened._

Roots rise and the ground shifts, trying to trip him, stop him, the further he gets into the forest. Wind hisses past his ears, a thousand voices whispering to make him falter. A million eyes watch him run, there one moment, gone the next. 

_All your fault. ALL YOUR FAULT._

Sweat plasters hair to his forehead, blood trickles from the thorns locked into his skin. He pushes himself harder, faster, branches snapping underfoot. 

_Don’t stop. Keep going. If you stop, you lose him._ _If you stop, it’s over._

He knows the law, he knows what to do. No names, never names. Truths held close but never lies. He wants to call out, to cry for him, but he can’t risk the name. 

_Never give them your name. Never give them_ his  _name._

His mind clouds and his vision blurs. Dizziness threatens to take him over, make him fall, but he pushes through. If he stops, it’s over. He’ll lose him forever. 

_They took him._

_Remember._

_Remember the rules._

_No names._ _Never names._

_No lies_ _but no truths._

_Iron._

_Salt._

_Be polite._

_But never thank them._

He can’t see anything except endless emerald. The trees melt into one before his eyes, a thick, impenetrable wall of green. There’s no ground beneath his feet, no sky above him. The leaves curl together to block out the sun. Nothing but green and brown and breathless fear. Never-ending green, never-ending fear. 

He stumbles through a wall of thorns, hissing in pain as they tear at him, ripping the breath from his lungs. Something catches his ankle, sending him sprawling onto the ground. Pain shudders up his arm as he pushes himself upright, limbs shaking.  

_You stopped._

He surges forward on unsteady legs. He has to keep going. He hasn’t stopped, he never will. He didn’t stay down, he got back up. 

_You stopped. It’s over._

He won’t stop, he won’t give up. He pushes ever onwards, following a path only his heart knows, the path the forest doesn’t want him to follow. The air shudders around him. Too close, too oppressive. 

He breaks a line of trees, crashing to the floor again. He struggles up, again, winded and breathless. He steps forward, ready to run—

A clearing. He freezes. 

Turns round and round. There’s no path out, trees too close.  _Greengreengreen_ _._ No way out. Is this the heart of the forest? Is this where they live? Has he reached his goal?

Too many questions. None he can answer. 

He draws a shuddering breath, fists clenched tight. 

_Remember the rules. You know the law._

_No names._

_Be polite._

_No truths but no lies._

“I REQUEST THE RETURN OF WHAT WAS TAKEN!”

Silence. Only the rustle of leaves, mocking him, jeering, until something – some  _thing_  – steps into the clearing. 

It’s tall. So tall. It towers over him. 

A cloak of moss, skin white as bone. Lines like the whorls of bark etched into its face, but shining bluer than cornflowers. Antlers curve up from its head, arching and stately. But its  _face._ Indescribable. An ever-moving shimmer, eyes unfathomable but with the promise of brown should be try to remember. It hurts to look at and he knows he’s found his quarry.

An old god. The entire forest bends in reverent respect. He almost takes a knee himself. 

_Remember the rules. You know the law._

He wants to scream, to lash out, to attack and retreat all at once. But he knows the law. They have to speak first. 

The leaves hiss again, mocking him, jeering. 

The creature tilts its head. “Welcome, mortal, to our realm.” Voice like the rush of water, rattling bones, bursting wood. “You come seeking something from me.”

_Deep breaths. Be polite._

“I ask for the return of my son who was taken from me. Lured into your forest, away from his home.”

_No please._

_No thank you._

The creature hums and the earth beneath them quakes. “Give me your name, mortal.”

_Give nothing._

“You may call me Tyr.”

_Justice. Protector. A challenge._

The creature steps closer and the forest screeches like claws on stone. Another trick. Another trap. 

“Tyr,” the creature sighs. “Very well. What is the name of your son?”

“Baldur.” The truth, as far as he can stretch it. 

_Joy. Purity. Summer._

The creature is silent. He hasn’t offended it yet, but the forest hisses its displeasure. 

The key of iron in his pocket  _burns._

The creature shifts suddenly, ineffably graceful, and opens one arm, showing what it has tucked carefully hidden away, swaddled in its cloak. 

“Purity and beauty,” the creature sighs. “I see a father’s love before me. He speaks honestly.” Long fingers tipped with vicious claws trail delicately over a soft cheek. “He is certainly charming. A pure little thing.”

The sleeping child doesn’t even stir in his captor’s arms, even as those savage claws ghost over his skin. His blood boils at the sight and the urge to rip the child from that thing’s arms is almost overpowering. 

_Be polite._

“I ask that you return him to me so we can leave your realm unharmed and unhindered.”

The creature tilts his head, considering, thinking, watching. “And what if I decline?” It says. “I have him… And I like him.”

He closes his eyes against the blind panic sweeping through his gut, sucking down deep breaths. 

_Don’t_ _get careless. You know the law. They don’t ‘like’. They play_ _and discard._

“I’ll play a game for him.”

They love games.

_But it’s impossible to win against them._

He has to try. 

“A game,” the creature hums. “And what do we get when we win?”

_When._ Not  _if._ But it’s interested he knows. They can never refuse the chance to play. This is his chance. His only chance.

“ _If_  you win… I’ll stay with my son.” A bargain. Two lives for the price of one. He has nothing else to give. Nothing else would be worth letting them leave. But even if he loses, even if he traps them here, they won’t own them. He has to be careful, watch his words. No more mistakes. 

“Very well,” the creature says, drawing the child closer to its chest. He can see the flash of stark white ribs beneath the folds of its cloak. “What game shall we play?”

This is it, this is his chance. Luck  _has_  to be on his side. Something with no way of rigging it, an even chance of winning. 

“Rock, paper, scissors.”

The chittering of the forest rises to a defeating crescendo. He fights to keep his arms by his sides. He’ll offend them if he covers his ears, and neither of them will leave alive. 

The creature laughs like the shattering of glass and splintering ice. “I agree,” it says. 

He shudders with the relief of the agreement. He raises a shaking hand. The creature does the same, claws steady. 

The world around them slows. The leaves fall silent. 

_Rock._

Their hands lower once. 

_Paper._

Their hands lower twice. 

_Scissors._

Their hands lower a third and final time. His blood roars in his ears as he opens his palm to spread his hand out to signify paper. In front of his splayed fingers is a curled, clawed fist. 

_He won._ Elation chokes him. 

“You’ve bested me,” the creature says. It doesn’t sound angry. It sounds…  _amused._ “A fair game. Luck… Was on your side.”

Then why is icy fear chasing away the warmth he’d felt only moments before? 

He watches, stricken, as one slender claw pokes a freckled nose almost tenderly. The sleeping child stirs, tiny hands clutching at the mossy cloak. 

“Wake up, little one,” the creature purrs. “Wake and greet the dawn.”

Blue eyes slowly open, blinking sleepily up at the creature above him, filling with the pure awe of a child. 

“There we go,” the creature croons. “Hello, little one.”

“Hello!” The child beams, infinitely trusting. “Who are you?”

No.  _No no no no no._

_Stop him!_

He opens his mouth, ready to cry out, to stop this. 

_No names._

He can’t do anything. 

“I think the better question is who are  _you,_ my little halfling?”

_No._ He can’t let this happen. He can’t let his beautiful little boy, his ever-trusting son, give his name to this thing. The panic surges through his chest, up his throat like fire. 

_No._

_Stop him._

_No way back._

_Only forward._

_Do it for him._

“I’ll give you my name!” He cries, the words ripping out of him. “Don’t take my son. I’ll give you my name. If you let him go.”

“Why would you give me this? You’ve already won.”

“A deal,” he chokes out. “My name for the safety of my son. You let him leave, you don’t harm him. None of your kind strike any bargains with him. He is protected and you can… You can have my name.”

The creature watches him carefully, those eternal eyes boring into him from a face his mind cannot understand. 

“But you give me time,” he says. “When my son turns eighteen, I’ll… I’ll come back to you. Eighteen years with him. Let me watch him grow up, teach him and guide him. And then I’ll return. And you can have me. Do we have a deal?”

His son’s eyes are on him, full of fear. He aches to hold him, to snatch him from this creature’s arms. 

A thin claw traces his cheek. His skin pricks and tingles beneath the deadly point. 

“Deal,” the creature says like the rumble of thunder. “Give me your name. Your  _true_ name.”

“Give me my son.”

A slow uncurl of an arm and the cloak, and his son is safe in his arms, clutched tight against his chest. 

“Your name,” the creature hisses. 

He takes a deep breath, lips pressed against his son’s forehead. They clutch at each other desperately. 

_For him._ _Anything for him._

“Hank,” he says softly. “My name is Hank.”

He feels the unsettling rush of ice through his veins as his name is stripped away. The creature curls its claws into a fist around the name, sealing it away from him forever. 

“Eighteen years,” it says. “Eighteen years and you return to me.”

_You knew the rules. You knew the law._

You can’t win a game against the Fey. 


	2. Chapter 2

The creature is gone. The clearing is empty. Just Hank clutching Cole tightly to his chest, heart thundering and blood chilled by the loss of his name. He doesn’t believe they’re alone for a second. He can feel the eyes all around them and Cole gives a small whine as Hank clutches him too tightly but he can’t loosen his hold. Not yet. 

A breath is released and suddenly the forest just… Quiets. No sound but the wind, soft like a sigh as it rustles the leaves. No whispers, no eyes. It almost feels welcoming now but he doesn’t trust it. Just because the deal was made doesn’t mean they’re safe yet. 

A path lies ahead. It wasn’t there before. Through the trees Hank can see sunlight glittering through the canopy. He knows he has to follow the path, but he can’t make his legs work. 

_For Cole. Take him home. To safety._

Hank steps forward. 

After that initially step it’s easier. He follows the path, eyes constantly watching for anything that might hinder them. The pathway is clear, and trees and roots seem to part to let them through. Like they’re trying to seem friendly, to let them pass safely. 

He still knows. This forest. Houses a  _god._ And Hank belongs to him now. 

Eighteen years…

It seems like a long time. And no time at all. For a human, it’s a small eternity. For a god it’s a single drop in an endlessly flowing stream. 

He keeps moving forward, Cole’s face hidden against his neck. His footsteps are almost silent. He can hear birds singing softly for the dawn. Nothing tries to stop them. The journey that took almost a lifetime before, takes little over an hour now. 

They break the line of trees on the edge of the forest and Hank can see home. The house Hank bought in the sunshine. Near a beautiful forest for Cole to explore. Before he knew what he knows now. 

His grip on Cole falters as exhaustion sleeps through his limbs. He doesn’t let go, he doesn’t slow down. Not until the walls of their home stand between them and the forest. 

And then his fears are realised. 

The call shudders through the forest with the force of a hurricane, but lighter than the softest sigh. 

_“Little one.”_

A final trick. One last test. 

If they look back, it’s over. 

He presses Cole’s face firmly into his chest. 

_Don’t look back._

The call gets weaker the further they get but it rings in Hank’s ears like church bells. Only when the old wooden door closes behind them does Hank let himself crumble, back sliding down the wood, cradling Cole in his arms on the floor. His legs can no longer carry him, but he held on long enough to get them  _home_ and  _safe._

He touches Cole’s face, checking him over frantically for any injuries or marks. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until a tiny hand brushes over his cheek. Soft blue eyes too knowing for the young face they’re in. 

“Don’t cry, daddy,” Cole says. He throws his arms around Hank’s neck like his life will end if he lets go. Hank shudders and clutches his son’s tiny body close. 

Does he understand what happened? Does he know what his father gave up for him?

He hopes not. No child should carry that burden. 

When Cole leans back from the hug Hank is smiling. He tucks a finger under his chin, kissing his forehead softly. 

“Daddy’s real hungry,” he says, looking exaggeratedly thoughtful. “What do you say to some pancakes?”

Cole’s smile is blinding and he scrambles up and hurries into the kitchen to help. Hank slowly gets to his feet and follows on shaky legs. He has no time to grieve for himself. He has to make sure his son is safe. That’s all that matters. He needs to take all the precautions. Salt the window panes and the doorsteps. Teach Cole to guard his name as fiercely as his heart. 

His son is everything. 

He moves into the kitchen to start preparing breakfast. He doesn’t see the eyeless crows that watch from the fences outside. He doesn’t see the eyes that watch from the forest. 

They belong to the forest now. 

And the forest will never let go of what he has won. 

He ignores the creeping sensation of dread that prickles his skin and goes through he motions of making breakfast while Cole sits happily at the table, legs kicking underneath. He doesn’t understand. Just knows that he’s safe now. He doesn’t know what lies ahead of him; what his father has done to secure them some peace for a few, fleeting years. 

The oil in the pan crackles deafeningly and the trees Hank can see from the window make his blood run cold. Still, he prepares breakfast like he isn’t falling apart, piles two plates with fluffy, hot pancakes – his speciality since Cole was old enough to eat them - and drizzles them with syrup, putting a plate down in front of his son and ruffling his hair before sitting down opposite him. 

Hank had asked for peace. He had asked that they be left alone until the time came for him to return to the forest. He doesn’t doubt that the forest will still call for him, try to claim him prematurely. All he can hope is that they honour their bargain, and that Cole is left alone. He’s strong enough to resist them, he knows that know. But Cole is so young and inquisitive. So trusting. It’s how they got him in the first place. 

“Cole?” The boy looks up, face smeared with syrup. Hank’s heart clenches. “Promise me you won’t ever go into the forest again. Don’t ever go where I can’t see you.”

“I promise,” Cole says, not a hint of petulance or disobedience on his face. “I promise, daddy.”

Hank nods, comforted but only slightly. He can’t trust in that promise. Not when the forest has its own desires. All he can do is keep the boy safe. 

His breakfast sits untouched. He feels to sick to eat.


	3. Chapter 3

Days pass in a blur Hank is too tired to count. Everything feels somewhat autonomous; the way he prepares Cole’s food, takes him to kindergarten, sits in his study and stares at his laptop screen. He knows he has a deadline looming but there’s no energy left inside him to care. What good will it do, now, to try and continue on with his life like he doesn’t have a greater, more dire fate hanging over him like a guillotine blade ready do drop at any moment? How is he meant to live now that he knows what awaits him once Cole is grown and Hank’s oath must be fulfilled?

 

He feels damned. Boxed in at every corner. Hemmed and herded like prey.

 

Cole is, fortunately, unaffected by the events in the forest. He has no nightmares, he asks no questions. He does sulk a little when Hank refuses to let him play outside in the street any more, keeping him closed in the back yard, not even straying too close to the fences that border the garden from the trees that surround them. He knows they’re out there. He can feel them watching. He doesn’t trust the promises given from mouthless lips and, from his kitchen window, he swears he can see antlers between the dense wall of tree trunks.

 

Hank’s nights are full of nightmares now. Dark, cloying visions of clawed hands and vines dragging him away from his crying son. He wakes fevered and sweating every night without fail, heart thundering a heavy drumbeat against his rib cage as he tries to calm his rushing pulse.

 

It does no good. He can feel it lodged in the core of himself, the hold they have over him now that they have his name.

 

_For Cole. You did it for Cole._

 

It doesn’t hurt any less. He’s never been so frightened.

 

He takes them out of the house as often as he can now. The weekends are spent in the heavy bustle of the city centre, in cafes for lunch, shopping for innocuous items they don’t need and are nothing more than excuses not to return home too soon.

 

Not that it makes any difference. Hank sees them watching. People with too wide pupils and too pale skin turn to watch them in the street. He knows what they are now. He ducks his head and pulls Cole closer. It makes no difference, but he still tries.

 

The crows he can ignore for the most part. Ink-black creatures with no eyes and shadowed holes in their place. Their talons are sharp, glinting like steel, and they watch from their perches on boughs and fence posts. Sightlessly. Soundlessly. Hank’s skin crawls and he keeps the blinds drawn for as long as he can get away with it. He knows they can still see him.

 

And it’s all useless, in the end. No attempts to shut them out will keep them away. They’re already inside his house, he’s already let them in by giving them his name. He hears it, late at night, when the only sounds are the old pipes settling and Hank feels more alone than he ever has. He hears the soft chimes and caws from Cole’s room. Hears the clicks and rustles and gently purrs of creatures singing his son to sleep. His heart seizes with the fear of it, but he’s helpless to stop them. His only faith lies in the promise that they’ll not harm him. It’s not much, but it’s all he has.

 

Because whatever happened in the forest, the creature that stole Cole away has claimed him somehow. That indescribably unfathomable creature with claws that catch and eyes aflame has marked Cole as his own, and nothing Hank can do will keep him away. It’s more than he can bear.

 

He attempts to escape once and only once, to disengage them from the hold Hank can feel tightening every passing day. He finds a new home, a new school for Cole, speaks with his editor about changing addresses. He plans it all and he very nearly succeeds.

 

It’s Cole that stops him.

 

His sweet, calm, perfect boy. The despair he spouts, the rage and the fury. His tiny body shakes with it, tears staining his cheeks as he cries and begs to stay. Hank watches with wide, hopeless eyes, heart sinking when he realises that Cole’s heart already belongs to the creature in the forest, even if he’s too young to understand. Taking him away would surely harm him.

 

Hank has never felt more trapped. This was never supposed to happen.

 

When Cole calms down and Hank feels more exhausted than ever, he retreats to his study to try and clear his head, typing away on his laptop aimlessly, ignoring all the work piling up as real life threatens to overwhelm him. He feels like he’s caught in the grip of a nightmare he can’t shake. Nothing seems like it matters anymore. There’s no urgency to send his completed manuscript to his editor, no drive to make sure the cupboards are filled and the bills are paid on time. He feels hollow, emptied out, like his will to live has been stripped of him.

 

And the crows on the fences still watch without eyes. Hank shuts himself away in his study and blocks it all out, types until his fingers ache and his back is stiff. He types until his eyes are wet and unfocused and he can’t write any more. He sends it without a second thought. Maybe someone will see it as a cry for help. Maybe his editor will make something of it? Who knows. All Hank can to is try to carry on under the weight that he belongs to something else now.

 

He wears headphones to bed to block out the sound of lullabies that soothe Cole to sleep. He keeps the windows locked and the blinds drawn even when Cole tries to open them. The child doesn’t understand this change in his father and Hank can see the distress in his eyes, but what can he do? How can he explain to Cole that one day his father is going to have to leave and serve the creatures in the forest that live in the shadows of the trees?

 

All because he wanted to save his son. And couldn’t even do that.

 

And then the gifts start arriving.

 

Hank nearly crushes them underfoot as he steps outside to fetch his mail. Small gems and delicate bones, clean and intricately carved with whorls and etchings. Colourful feathers and petals from flowers Hank has never seen before. He stares for a long moment at the small pile of what he can only assume are gifts left by the crows. He scowls and kicks them off of the porch step with his foot, grinding the bones under his heel. They’re nothing but pretty little tricks intended to lure Cole back into the trees.

 

Or so he thinks.

 

Because in what realm of possibility would Hank ever consider that they were intended for him?

 

He’s so used to feeling watched now that he doesn’t even register the added feeling of eternal eyes on him as he kicks the trinkets away and slams the door closed behind him. Gnarled hands close into fists in shadow, and an unfathomable face turns away in grief.

 

 

 


End file.
